Gold
by Prayer Machine
Summary: Alois and Claude. An experiment of sorts, I've never written for Alois so I wanted to give it a try. I think I'm in love. This is very rough, but I hope it shows enough of his voice. Thanks.


Gold, his eyes were gold. Dripping, smattering, dappling gold. Gold, gold as the sun, gold as a _crown_.

He wanted to _devour _those eyes, to pierce them right through, have them dribble out and rub the shiny juice between his finger and his thumb. He wanted to lick up that gold, wondered if it would set fire to his tongue. But he didn't want this to be cruel to him. He had beautiful eyes. He wanted only to **_have _**them, too.

Claude wouldn't look at him.

It was as if he _knew, _as if he _knew _how badly he wanted those eyes. He was teasing him. Such a naughty butler… always tiptoeing around him and pretending _pretending _to hide that same devouring hunger deep in those gold circles. But Alois wasn't stupid. He was a fly, begging the spider to love him. Spider's don't have dead eyes. They have eight, alive, always hungry, always disgusting. Like berries. Sometimes, he wanted to squeeze them out, one by one. Pop them. Hahaha. But _Claude _wouldn't let him. He wouldn't let him. He wouldn't. If he did, then he wouldn't look at him, and he might leave him. Alois didn't want that. He could handle the empty looks, the pretending looks, the far-away hateful looks – but not no looks at all. He needed gold.

"Claude, feed me."  
Even with lips sucked tight around that fork, even with chocolate spilt, sticky, down his chin, even with soft, pleading noises of pleasure – Claude did not look at him. He stared at the handle, at the cloth, at his chest.

"Claude, bathe me."  
Even when his hands rushed up and down his back, even when his back arched suddenly and water, hot, trickled down his face, even when he flapped his arms like a bird and splashed water right in Claude's face – he still he did not look at him. He stared at his reflection, at his own hands, at his back.

"Claude, undress me."  
Even when his fingers slipped and touched his warm skin through the undone buttons, even when he put a hand on his head and pushed, gently, _down, _even when he rolled down his socks and caught sight of his beautiful, worshipped, holy feet – Claude did not look at him. He stared at nothing, nothing and nothing.

Even when he squirmed in his arms, even when he undid his buttons, threw his crosstie on he ground- stared into his face with eyes like dirty rainwater and full of filth, no matter what he did – those gold eyes stared right through him, lustless, sexless, hungerless.

And then he'd cry.

He'd struggle and cry and wail between his silk sheets, he'd damn himself, chastise himself, wonder what the _fuck _was wrong with him. He couldn't be loved. Claude didn't love him. No, no, no he'd breathe and convince himself, grow calmer with every moment. Claude didn't need that hunger, that old man's flame, he loved him in the purest way, the kindest way, the truest way. Claude loved him, Claude really, truly, truly, truly loved him.

"Claude, tell me a bedtime story. Tell me about the spider. The one in the drain."

And then he'd whisper, in that honeyvoice, about Incy Wincy and sound completely _moronic_ but each word was soothing, each time his fingers knit together and those eight little white legs scurried up the drain – each time Incy Wincy dried out in the sun again, Alois felt whole. The sun could save a spider.

"Claude, don't leave me tonight. Stay until I fall asleep."

And as he lay there, beneath the sheets, imagining Incy Wincy dancing up his spine – Claude would wait. He'd wait, silently, patiently, fingers clasped on his lap. Even when Alois had just one blue eye poking out from beneath the mess of sheets, he could see that he stared at _nothing. _Yet he was framed, his glasses, the tips of his hair – so beautifully framed in soft gold, like a halo. And he'd wait there, like a guardian angel, he would indeed wait there until he fell asleep. How did he know? How did he know when to go? He didn't even leave when he _pretended _to be asleep, eyes knit tight together. He'd become an expert at that, pretending to sleep –so _how did he know?  
_  
Sometimes, he wouldn't even fall asleep. They'd spend the night playing cards, Alois waltzing around with a sheet cape and a crown made out of paper. But Alois didn't do this often because Claude was always in a boring mood and Alois could tell he'd rather be in the kitchen, scrubbing pots. He gave those pots more attention than he'd ever give him. He was that worthless, that lowly, that _stupid. _Entertaining when thought of only as a snack. Hahahahahahahaha. Who the fuck cared. He was still Claude's highness. And he'd dance for him, dance with him, oleoleoleole, white feet pounding on the frail floorboards.

But every night, when he was stumbling into sleep, he'd remember gold.

He'd have those eyes.

They would be his.


End file.
